


Eight

by Vortaesthetic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, The Dominion, deep seated issues with inadequacy, kiss ass until the end, or the domonion you choose i like domonion better, wow cardassia what the heck happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vortaesthetic/pseuds/Vortaesthetic
Summary: Weyoun Eight waits for Cardassia to burn around him.





	Eight

I took a few creative liberties with the end of the show... I just became obsessed with DS9 in the last 48 hours and just found my zen in Weyoun. It's not really anything more than a drabble, really. An exercise to try to get into someone's head and go from there.

 

[Eight]

Reigndeer Games

 

Time was running short.

With every second that ticked by, with every word uttered in the control room, the collective patience of The Dominion's upper echelon wore ever thinner. Where once before everyone wore the veneer of cordiality and respect, none could any longer be bothered to pretend. Only the thinnest of tethers bound everyone together, but critical failure was imminent. The Jem'Hadar were restless, the Breen were irritated. The Founder itself was absolutely malevolent. A bright thread of barely contained panic was shot through the whole mess.

The atmosphere was now primed to explode at any minute. When it did, he was sure that he would be the first to be burnt on the pyre of Cardassia's fall.

Weyoun Eight was in a strange position. The Vorta was able to draw on eight selves' worth of lives and deaths, and nothing in any of his collective memories was able to prepare him for this experience. The Vorta were genetically and psychologically tailored to serve the will of their Changeling gods. Their entire sense of self was invested in serving the will of The Founders; everything not essential to that end was trimmed away by design. Failure in this task is not an acceptable outcome. It could not be tolerated. And yet he had failed all the same, and spectacularly so, given the depth of the Founder's hostility.

Things were presently going poorly for him, in more ways than one. The Dominion's foothold on Cardassia was slipping, undermined by guerrilla resistance attacks. Though Damar was now dead, a chain reaction had started; a positive cascade reaction that could no longer be stopped. Cardassia-- and by extension their new foothold on the Alpha Quadrant-- was slipping out of their grasp and they could do naught but watch. Watch and reactively scramble to put out the fires.

Weyoun may not have a sense of aesthetics, but he could appreciate the prophecy of this disaster. As the casualty reports streamed in and the vidlink feeds of their facilities showed them going up in flames, the despondency of the situation thickened and alleviated all sense of uncertainty. He would not survive this day either. 

This was a pivotal moment. A sea change.

The Founder had only become more hostile as the conflict pressed on. Where once he had been The Founder's most trusted confidant, he found himself steadily sinking under the weight of her ambitions. At first, he managed to tread water on her disappointment, figuring that he still had a chance to turn things around. Now the mirage of that hope had passed and he found himself drowning in her outright hostility. This was heartbreaking on a level that no one else but a Vorta could ever hope to understand. Where the failings of Jem'Hadar could be pinned on the Vorta who held their reins, Vorta had no such shield from the judging eye of their gods. They stood alone, bare under the spotlight; vulnerable prey under the cold gaze of the Founders' disappointment.

He felt that weight on his shoulders now. He had not only disappointed his gods, he had failed to serve their will adequately. He was incompetent in his duties—incompetent in fulfilling the only purpose of his existence. Perhaps this inadequacy was his own defect? Where Six failed in his pacifism and his dogged loyalty to Odo, did Eight's own lack of conviction and foresight allow the world to come crashing down around his own ears? Did his failure to keep Damar on a leash doom the entire Dominion to loss?

The doubt and uncertainty hummed in his bones as he watched the proceedings quietly. He schooled his features and tried to remain as unnoticeable as possible. He was already disfavored enough. He should not give the Founder any more reason to terminate him early than she already had.

–

Things have only been getting worse.

This is troubling. Even more so than it had been before.

The Founder is all anger and vengeance. Her impassive face hides it well, but it tinges her voice, is visible in the minute movements of her hands. The flaking of her form only adds to the indignity of it all; the flesh colored leaves peeling off of her skin symbolic for the failing power of the Dominion itself. It is no longer about winning the battle-- so much strategic ground has already been lost that such an outcome is no longer possible-- She wants this battle to be a painful barb. If the Dominion cannot win, the Dominion will make their enemies sorrow for all that they will lose. She flails at any opportunity for her weakening claws to find purchase. Perhaps if he could offer a suitable suggestion?

Perchance he may redeem himself yet. He nervously wets his lips, preparing to speak.

“Founder, if I may suggest something...”

“What is it, Weyoun? Speak quickly. I have very little tolerance for any more of your failures.”

The Vorta smiled deferently, his hands clasped tightly together in desperate supplication. “Your eminence, it seems that the Cardassian insurgents are hiding amongst civilians for protection, correct? Perhaps we should make the civilians pay the price for their people's treachery? They may reject the rebels if their suffering is contingent on their presence.”

The Founder regarded him coolly, thinking over the suggestion. In better times, the suggestion would be absolutely ludicrous, but these were end times. She was out for pain, and he had given her the justification to inflict it, served up to her on a platter. If his morality system was any different, he probably would have been condemned to the dishonorable afterlife, but he couldn't care less about that. He was Vorta, and to serve the Founders was everything. There was nothing else. And perhaps if he dies in a little less contempt, he could know some sort of peace.

The Founder gave the order and the Jem'Hadar followed. They began reaping the populace like wheat.  
The order of the day was now Pyrrhic victory, and the Jem'Hadar were eager as ever to obey. The cloak of Death fell so heavily that even Weyoun could feel it, could anticipate it.

Death would visit him soon.

When the time came for him to be cut down too, he would accept that. After all, the Founders would have willed it so.

A Weyoun obeys the Founders in all things, after all.


End file.
